


A Guest in the Halls

by vanessa_cardui



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, F/F, Hair Kink, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oviposition, Stockholm Syndrome, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17796197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessa_cardui/pseuds/vanessa_cardui
Summary: When an adventurer finds its way into Virid's halls, Virid is seized with the urge to lay. But preparing the mammal's body to receive her eggs is a long process, and the two of them will have time to learn about each other, and find that neither of them is quite what the other expects.





	A Guest in the Halls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Usually, it was arcanists who came alone. Groups were messy, and arcanists. . . Virid watched carefully, and waited. There were spells that could be woven with words, fires that could be summoned from nothing. It was best to leave arcanists be.

It wasn't only arcanists who had those resources. Even if her current guest wasn't an arcanist, Virid would have to be cautious. But then, it was her nature to be cautious. It was not her visitor's. It walked boldly through places that had been sealed, into places that Virid dared not go. And it returned from them, eyes shadowed, with wounds carefully bound. No evidence of the arcane, beyond the tools that the visitor handled. Tools were dangerous, deadly. But tools could be removed.

Virid waited as long as was necessary. Then she started laying her lines. Thin lines, invisible in the shadows, indirect. She slept and woke, laid down the lines, watched and waited.

There were few thrills that matched the vibrations in the lines, the first time a visitor touched one, and then another, when it pulled in the way that Virid expected it to pull, when the strength of her lines were tested by the strength of her visitor.

Virid had waited until her visitor had gone into one of those deeper passages, and she had laid her lines at the entrance the visitor had taken. As she had hoped, the visitor had returned through that passage, and as she had hoped, the visitor was tired and bloodied, having fought with things that lay beneath Virid's halls.

Tired and bloodied and strong, so strong it made Virid's urge stronger, and sent tremors down her legs. It pulled hard on the strand that had caught it, and though it couldn't win free, it got its sword loose. The visitor had touched Virid's lines with its arm and leg, and had touched more when it had pulled against those. But that sword blazed up in flame, and its armor gleamed with flickering arcane lights, and the reflections of her sword's fires. It had cut Virid's silk, and it could cut more, and--

Virid almost wished that she could watch the visitor win free, and stand strong in the flickering light of its sword. But the urge was on her. Her abdomen twisted, and her spinnerets aimed, all without thought; a mass of silk at the wrist which held the sword, catching it below the flames, pinning it to the wall.

The visitor looked at it, pulled, and looked at Virid, drawing a hook-bladed dagger with its off-hand, slicing toward—a second mass of silk, catching that hand and that dagger, pinning them to the first hand, before it had been able to cause itself harm, in an attempt to escape.

There was fear as she approached. There always was, with mammals; they could not help it. And the armor delayed the help that Virid could give. But it was not her first guest, and it was not her first guest in enchanted plate. More silk, to hold the visitor's feet to the floor. That was a waste, but the human was powerfully strong, and Virid did not enjoy being kicked. Then it was a matter of finding the catches for the cuisse and greave, as her guest's heart beat like an imprisoned bird, and its breath ran rapid with fear.

"Soon, soon," she crooned. "Easy, easy. This is . . . ah, the raith-enchanters never consider anything but thumbs and fingers for their catches. Ah, there we are."

The cuisse fell from the visitor's thigh. In the past, she had explained, but it had not dulled the mammalian fear, had not kept them from wasting their strength on struggle. It was simpler to act than explain, and simpler to . . . Virid's maxillae cut the fabric beneath the cuisse, and then she bit down with her chelicera, not hard, just enough to penetrate the yielding flesh.

Her guest struggled, hard, and long, pulling at a mass of silk that would hold down an undertiger's leg, let alone a human hand, still fighting hard as her eyes grew dim, and the venom spread. Virid waited, pressed up against her guest's thigh, feeling the slowing pulse, the growing cool. Only when she was sure that her guest was truly asleep did Virid let her attention turn to other matters. They were strong and clever and lovely, mammals.

There was a good deal of work to do, before Virid could be so enraptured. If her guest had upset something beneath, it might well be coming after her, so she used her silk to seal the passage that the visitor had taken. It would hold for a time, anyway. Then her guest. She unwound the silk holding her guest in place, and when it fell to the floor, Virid folded it for transport, wrapped it tight. The sword and dagger fell from its hands as the silk holding them was unwrapped, and she wrapped those as well. They were precious things to her guest, and though they were dangerous, it would not do to lose them.

The visitor had lost enough already, after all.

She was pleasingly solid, as Virid carried her back to the nest. Another trip, for sword and dagger, and to make sure that Virid hadn't left any traces which would lead those searching for the visitor back to her nest. Passages sealed behind her, and then, only then, could she turn her attention to what she had caught.

Another bite, just a small one, so that her guest would not wake at an inconvenient time. Then the transport wrappings came off, and her guest tumbled, loose and open, to the floor of Virid's nest.

There was the temptation with humans, to leave the armor on. It was so like the skeleton of insects, armor. This was the real raith-work, bright with enchantment. To leave it on, to insinuate oneself beneath. . . but no. Humans would chafe beneath plates kept on too long, grow unhealthy. And it would not shape itself to the coming changes. The armor was raith-enchanter work, made by the same hands that had laid the stones of Virid's halls, and lit the ever-burning lanterns that gave them the half-light and shadow which so suited her. The straps were leather and cord, inferior things, but still strong enough that she had to fiddle with them to get them open. Then the padded garments beneath, with a growing urgency, until her guest was spread out and open for inspection.

Its hair had been bound up in braids beneath its helmet, but it was long and bright, the reds and oranges of a torch, and fine to the touch as silk. Skin was pale, with a spread of fine dots, more or on her shoulders and arms and legs and face than on her torso or upper thighs. When she stroked it softly, her guest stirred.

So Virid bound her up again. Not so tightly as she had for transit, with legs and arms folded into a ball, but tight enough that her guest would feel secure, and not feel compelled to attempt to attack or escape. Head left free, and the lower legs, so that it could regulate its body temperature somewhat and communicate. Hands tight to its sides, because hands were trouble. Then Virid made herself a perch above where her guest was held in her nest, and started stroking its hair.

Not quite fine as silk, no. But fine. It was pleasant to feel its hair with the claw and hair of her tarsus, pleasant to find the little knots and unwind them, pleasant to separate away the bits of dirt and dried skin that had gathered, so that the hair grew more lustrous and bright. And mammals enjoyed that sensation as well. When they became aware of what was touching them, they would recoil, yes, but the venom prevented too much awareness.

So her guest was not struggling as soon as it awoke. One last slip of its hair past her legs, and then Virid retreated to the webbing above it, to watch it wake.

It woke, and it began to struggle again, just as hard. Despite the venom in its blood, despite the silk that wrapped it. It fought so hard and so bravely it was hard to watch, hard to know what lay in the future for it. But futures were distant. She reached down again with her legs, stroking that flame bright hair.

"Slowly, slowly," said Virid. "It is difficult, yes. Slowly. Easy. Test if you must, certainly. Be certain. But do not injure yourself."

There was a titanic heave from her guest, and again, and one final pull, stronger than the rest. It did not tear Virid's silk. It couldn't; she'd held undertigers with that, and even young drakelings, gone too far from their nest. It was strong, but she was not an undertiger.

After the struggle came the tears. That was the way of it. The first few times, Virid had thought that the struggles had damaged something in her guests, that they were leaking a clear blood or a hemolymph equivalent, or perhaps their eyes had ruptured. But no; that was the way of humans, an expression of sorrow. Virid touched the wetness of the tears, and the guest flinched away at the touch. It was difficult to be gentle with humans, with their softness against the chitin of Virid's legs, but it was difficult not to touch, not to know.

"Yes," she said. "It is sorrowful to be caught. I understand."

The human took a breath, and Virid could feel its shudders in her bindings, feel its difficulty. She had not compressed the chest to the extent that it was difficult for it to breathe. That was sorrow, again.

"I have used much silk," said Virid, "and I must hunt. You are safe here, but I must go."

Another struggle against the silk, weaker than before. It was difficult, to leave her guest untended, when it was in such sorrow. Sometimes Virid would give another dose of venom, so that they would not be alone in their sorrow, but she'd found that it was easier for them to spend some time alone with their thoughts, so that they could understand what had happened on their own terms.

She left, and she hunted. Small prey. Ratlings and snakes in the forests of standing lichen and fungus that grew where the raith enchanters had planted them for their own use, all those years ago. She took them quickly, drained them and cast them aside, wasting much of what could be taken from them in her haste. Enough to satisfy the hunting urge. Then back to her lair, the other urge rising.

If the visitor had been an arcanist, it would have already won free, and been on its way. It was safest for Virid to allow these things to happen, to hunt and not to be present when the fire spells came down, or the unbindings. Legs grew back, yes, but that was painful and took a long time. If her guests could leave, it was best if they left unopposed. But she hoped that this one hadn't. Its hair was so beautiful. Long waves of red and orange. The little tufts of hair over its eyes were a brighter orange, as were the tufts at the joints of arm and body, and over the entrance to its vaginal canal. She hunted as quickly as she could, returned as quickly as she could, and was delighted to see her guest still there, still held in her silk.

It glared at Virid as she returned to her chamber. So brave and so strong.

"Are you well?" asked Virid. "Your armor protected you well. It is the real raith-work, strongly enchanted."

Its glare didn't lower. "What do you want?" it said.

"I could ask you the same," said Virid. "This is where I live, this is what I do. But you do not live here. Why have you come here with fire and steel. What do you want?"

"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

It was angry, and it was strong, but it had tasted despair. That wasn't what Virid wanted, that wasn't. . . she came closer, and started stroking its hair again. It was fine to the touch, and so bright when it was clean. "Perhaps not, shh, perhaps not," she said. "But perhaps it does, eh? There are times when fortunes change, perhaps what is coming will not be so grim as you expect. What have you come here for, then. Perhaps I will find it for you?"

A choking noise, which made Virid lay a tarsus upon her guest's throat, to make sure it was not too tightly bound, there. But no; that was, perhaps, a laugh.

"Will you be bringing me a draught from the fountain of Caithren's Heart, then?" it asked.

"Ah, no," said Virid. "I know my limitations too well to attempt that." She shivered a little in her web, the weight of her body sending tremors through her web, through her guest. "And even if I was willing to risk it, I do not think that I could acquire the flame-horse hair I would need to weave a veil bright enough to show me the true way to the Heart. My kind is seldom welcomed in the world above, and the flame-horses do not range anywhere near here."

Her guest was suddenly still. "Flame-horse hair," it said.

"Yes," said Virid. "From the mane or the tail. It is difficult to weave it in such a way that it will brighten and not burn, but there are few things that I cannot properly weave."

Her guest collapsed a little in Virid's silk, the tension leaving its arms slightly, and the legs. Virid was still cautious. It was small, but it was so very strong. "Flame-horse hair," it said, again, softly. "Woven into a veil."

Virid made a sympathetic noise. "But while I cannot get you a drink from Caithren's Heart, perhaps you will enjoy a more modest drink, yes?"

She went to where she had stacked its belongings, finding the sack of water, so similar to an animal that had been cocooned and then digested. She brought it back to her guest, held it with her jaws, softly, so as not to break it, her legs on her guest's face and throat and stomach, feeling her uncork it with her clever little jaws and tongue, felt the liquid pulsing down its throat and into its stomach.

It did not need to drink, not really—soon, that would all be taken care of. But it was something familiar for it, and it was soothing. Also, to see it drinking, to feel those movements. . . the other urge was rising.

"What is coming will be uncomfortable," she said. "But I shall bite you, and it will be easier."

"Wait," said the guest. "No, please, I--"

Virid's guest's legs were thick with meat and muscle, warm and very expressive. They flinched back from Virid's touch, as she found the place. Just the smallest dose of venom, into a minor vein, on the inside of a thigh. The mark she left was no bigger than one of the specks of color that her guest had on its skin. Virid swept the blood into her mouth as it dripped out. So rich and alive, tasting faintly of her venom. It was a sharing between them; Virid could feel the faintest edge of the heat and lassitude that she had given to her guest.

When she climbed up above her guest, it was no longer struggling or tense; it was relaxed in Virid's silk, its hips moving slowly to the pulse of her arousal.

Virid could wait no longer. She positioned herself, felt the motion within her, sparked by the blood and her venom. Her ovipositor came questing outward, looking for. . . .

Perhaps she had been too sparing with the venom. Her guest still shook its head to the side, turned away from her. Virid's legs reached out, positioned it properly. "Easily," she said. "You may injure yourself if you struggle."

With her back legs, she manipulated the visitor's stomach. That could force them to breathe, and with the venom, there would be enough. . . no. Her guest this time was very strong; Virid could feel the tension in the muscles across its stomach, feel the way it was fighting. She could force it, but it would hurt, it might cause damage.

Her legs went lower. The guest was fighting the venom as best it could, but the venom could not be entirely resisted. The point between its thighs was wet. Virid stroked there, softly. She was balanced on two legs on her web; two of the others were holding the visitor's head in place, another two were stroking between its legs, at the opening to its womb, and the final two were stroking her guest's hair again. It was so pleasing, so relaxing. Even though the urge was upon her, she could wait for hours like that.

The guest could not, not with the venom already in its blood. It twisted away from those lower legs, and then twisted toward them. There were little gasps, as Virid ran her claws across the sensitive point at the apex of the opening, and again when the hairs of her tarsus ran across the incredibly soft flesh that surrounded the entrance to the vaginal canal.

When Virid retracted her claw, and slid a tarsus into that opening, her guest's mouth opened, and she pushed her ovipositor into the guest's mouth. Not deeply, just into the section of the aperture within her visitor's head, pressing gently against the point where it curved downward.

The visitor struggled again, of course. But more weakly, and there was not the violent rejection that would sometimes occur with the throat.

"Easily," said Virid, still stroking her guest's hair, finding small knots and twists, and unknotting them. "Mhmm, yes, it is pleasant when you test it with your teeth like that, so small and clever. But do not bite too hard, or you may injure yourself. Good, yes, that is . . . ah."

Mammalian throats were complicated. Entrance to the lungs, entrance to the stomach, major veins and arteries. But Virid's ovipositor had been too well stimulated for it to remain at the entrance.

The legs which had been holding the visitor's head in place shifted down to the throat guiding the ovipositor as it slid downward, pushing past the pleasing tightness of first the upper sphincter in the throat, and then, deeper, the lower.

Meanwhile, her tarsus had pushed all the way into the guest's vaginal canal. She could feel the complexities of its insides, the warm wetness of both its throat and in its reproductive canal at the same time. Then there was the way its pleasure contracted it against the fur of Virid's tarsus, how smooth and tender its inner skin was, both in its throat and in its vaginal canal. The other foot there worked at the sensitive point, at the flesh around the point of entry; as the one tarsus worked in and out, the other spread the moisture it had found, gave her guest the pressure that it needed, the motion.

Her guest was very strong, and despite the venom, it fought very hard. It could not push the ovipositor out, of course, and when it attempted to expel the tarsus from inside of it, that added to its arousal. But it fought hard against the coming pleasure, its muscles taut against it, its hair shaking with its refusal.

It was too lovely. Virid stroked her guest's face with her pedipalps, feeling every emotion, every shudder. Neither the venom nor the stimulation could be resisted forever, and when the visitor came, it was like a dam breaking. Every muscle strained against Virid's silk, everything inside her twisting and clenching, and it had been so long, and it came so strong, that the eggs poured from the ovipositor like a constant, flowing stream.

Virid almost had to pull out of her guest before she had finished her laying, it was that intense. But too rapid a withdrawal, and she would damage the throat, and if an egg were to emerge at the wrong time, it would clog her guest's lungs. They pulsed out of her, into her guest's stomach until she could feel the pressure of them against her ovipositor, and Virid felt lighter when she was finally done, and she could retract the ovipositor. She ran her legs over her guest's stomach as she withdrew. It was so taut and tight, she feared that a single egg more would have caused a rupture.

The lassitude that came over her when she was done was a pale reflection of the way it took her guest. It was alive; Virid could tell that by the pulse of its blood and from its breathing, but both of those were slow, and it was deeply unconscious.

Virid freed it from the web, and then wrapped it again. Long swaths of silk around its legs and midsection, pinning its legs together, and its arms to its sides. Then she settled it into the web, and wrapped herself around it, holding them both in place, enjoying the touch of the skin of its hindquarters against her belly, the feeling of silk holding it in place, the swell of its stomach.

It had struggled so long and so hard that Virid had almost burst it when she had gained her release. But it was not burst; the stomach was whole, and full, and Virid was hungry again.

She had eaten the silk which had wrapped it before, and she would hunt again soon. But she couldn't leave it yet, not after that. She could not leave it to wake alone, not understanding. And after that, she was too close to her guest.

Virid started stroking its hair with her pseduopalps, and then she started to plait it, to weave little braids and patterns. It was so lovely, and so strong, and it would not be long before. . . there was a stirring within Virid's abdomen. She had emptied herself into her guest, and she wanted to do it again, as soon as she could, even though she had nothing left to give it. Not until she ate, not until there were more. . . .

She clung there for a long time, crooning softly to her guest, until it finally awoke, shaking.

Virid retreated, just a little bit, to let it get its bearings. It retched, shaking its head back and forth, but that would not. . . the eggs were firmly lodged, all of them.

"Hush," said Virid, pulling closer, wrapping herself back around her guest. "There. It was not so bad. The bite makes it easier, yes? Not so bad."

"You didn't answer," said the visitor, dully. "When I asked what you wanted. But that was it, that was what you wanted."

Virid was silent.

"And they're going to grow in me, and they're going to rip me open, and--"

"Hush," said Virid. "Easy. It is clever of you to realize that those were eggs, not sperm, yes? But those are unfertilized. They will be sustenance, they will help you change, to accommodate. . ."

She stopped, but she had already said more than she had intended.

"To change into what? To accommodate what?"

Virid held her guest tight, to soothe its trembling. "Don't let it worry you," she said. She sighed. It was easier when her visitors understood gradually, rather than all at once. But now that the questions were raised, it would be conjuring up all sorts of imaginary threats. Perhaps the truth would ease things. Some of the truth.

"There will be fertile eggs later, perhaps," said Virid. "And you shall house them for a time, yes, perhaps. Perhaps not, eh? Perhaps you will leave my care before then, or perhaps I will have to leave you before then. No reason to fret over something that you cannot change, and which might not happen."

"Fertile eggs," said her guest. There was still that dullness in its voice. "Changes. And that venom. . . ."

"It is good, isn't it?" said Virid. "It makes everything so much easier. I have to go hunt now, but I shall return. Then I will give you a little more of the venom, to make this all seem easier."

Virid's guest wanted to argue, wanted to say more, but it couldn't. The after-effects of the venom couldn't be denied for that long. And mammals looked so peaceful when they slept, all the tension gone from those wonderfully expressive faces and hands. Virid gave a last stroke to her visitor's hair, and to its exposed skin; it shuddered as she left, its body already learning to regret Virid's absence.

The hunt that time took longer than it had the first time she had to leave her guest. At first, prey could not be found, and then it was more substantial than would have prefered—a pair of undertigers, who had come up after something. Perhaps they had followed her visitor's scent all the way from the depths, perhaps they had merely caught it in Virid's halls. But she had to delay them, and separate them before she could engage, and then only after her prey had become partially entangled. It took a long time, it was difficult and dangerous, but by the end she had two cocoons to drag back to her lair; those would keep her fed for a long time.

The visitor was awake when Virid brought them back and arranged them, and it was silent when Virid began to feed on the first.

"Are they still alive?" it asked, finally.

"That is a complicated question," said Virid.

"I don't think it is."

Virid drank deep from the tiger which she had started on. "First, these are undertigers," she said. "It is hard to say if they are alive in the sense that you are, or that I am, yes? They do not ratiocinate. They are . . . hm. If an arcanist were to take the head of one of these, and keep it aware, despite detaching it from the body, would that be alive?"

The visitor gave her a curious look, but didn't answer.

"If so, then these are not alive. The functions of brain above the spine have been ended. The heart still beats, the lungs still compress, but there is nothing more than that. The venom--"

"Your venom."

"Yes," said Virid. "In a much larger dose. In the sense that being alive is in the brain above the spine, they are dead, and they died in a peaceful ecstasy. Which is more than can be said for the dried beef which you carry in your packs, perhaps? And I believe that beeves are not given so fair a chance in the hunt either, yes? Now these shall keep me fed, and I shall keep you fed."

When she had eaten her fill, she went over to her guest, found the place where the silk ended, high on its shoulder. "But I must rest. I will bite you, so that you will rest with me."

It struggled a little, hearing that, and Virid bit down. Not much of the venom, but a little more than the last time, so that it would rest for as long as it needed. Again, the sharing of the venom in the blood, and again the ardor, as Virid held her tarsus against the opening to its vaginal canal, and it moved against it, slick and warm and impossibly soft. Virid had spent her store of ready eggs, but the guest's ardor was so strong that she felt the stirring, felt the ovipositor reach out, to lie stiff against the guest's back, until it climaxed against her legs, the one inside and the one stroking her, and then fell asleep. When it was unconscious, Virid slept as well, holding the heat of her guest, in a lair that was safe and well provisioned.

She woke before her guest, and busied herself with maintenance. The time would come when she would need more channels in her lair to be open, so she unbound some of the doors which she had sealed, cleaning out things which had taken up residence in those chambers and detritus which her guest might have found upsetting. Then she unbound and rebound her guest. The skin of mammals and their joints were wonderful things, but difficult; if skin was swaddled for too long, sores could develop, and their position had to be changed from time to time, to keep the muscles from atrophying.

There was a great deal to do, in caring for a guest, and Virid resented none of it. It was so very lovely; she found herself stroking its hair and its face in moments of rest in her work. And then there was the swell of its belly, the growing fullness of its breasts. It couldn't help but to change, after Virid had given it that many eggs, all at once. It was changing, getting ready for her, and there was that stirring within her as she considered it, suspended from her web, breasts and belly hanging free of her silk.

When it awoke, it was dull with the venom. Virid gave it a little more of its water, and it sucked eagerly. The unfertilized eggs would give it everything it needed, but they were used to drinking, and their body would tell them that they thirsted if they had not had water. And it helped ease the soreness in their throat, after it had been used by the ovipositor.

She had to wait until the venom had done all of its work before biting it again, which was difficult. Seeing it there, seeing its strength and resolve as it realized again where it was, the struggle ahead of it—Virid's ovipositor started questing outward when she considered it.

"You're going to do that again soon," it said, when it was coherent again.

"Yes," said Virid. She climbed up behind her guest, and reached around to stroke its breast. She would bite it there, that time. High on the slope of the breast, just below where its markings gave way to pale flesh. Two more marks, to show how close they had been.

It flinched away from her touch, still struggling; Virid's ovipositor stirred within her, and she turned back to stroking its hair, to weaving and unweaving braids and nets. Its hair wasn't nearly as strong as silk; even when she wove it into cords, it could hold the human's weight, perhaps, but not much more than that. Still, it was pleasant to see it, shimmering in the half-light of Virid's home, woven into fantasies of webs.

"It hurts," said her guest.

"I know," said Virid, stroking its hair, and its back. "I am sorry for it. But the venom helps, does it not? Such powerful climaxes, such a deep repose."

It struggled then, first testing the strength of Virid's silk, and then more strongly, with less intention. Virid withdrew, so that it would not hurt itself against her legs, and felt the pulses and stretches of its muscles against her webs. When it finished, she could wait no longer. She bit it again, at the point where she had chosen, her fangs pushing through the softness of the flesh, rather than the resistance of muscle.

This time, her guest knew what was coming. But it fought just as hard as it had the previous time. Harder, maybe, not opening its mouth until it was on the verge of orgasm, and then twisting and pushing back against the ovipositor as it slid down her throat, pushed through the sphincter there, and then the other one, deep at the opening to her stomach.

Virid had fewer eggs to give her, and her stomach was not so empty as it had been. But its body had learned, from the first time. Its struggles and its pleasure had been just as intoxicating as it had been the first time, and when the unfertilized eggs pushed through, she felt herself growing lighter. But the stomach wasn't quite so drum tight as it had been the first time, when Virid was finished. It was growing and changing, to accommodate what was to come.

The lassitude when it was done was the same, though. Virid curled around her guest, pressing it tight to her carapace, legs wrapped protectively around it, her pedipalps idly moving in its hair. Then they slept, together.

"Please," said her guest, waking Virid.

"Is it water?" asked Virid. "Would you like another drink?"

"No, not yet. It's not that. I just. . . please don't bite me again?"

Virid was still, not even moving her pedipalps. "You don't find the venom pleasing?"

"Not. . . it takes too much away," it said. "I can only remember fragments, I can't stay awake."

"Yes," said Virid. "That is best. There is unpleasantness which you forget, but the pleasure remains, yes?"

"I don't want to forget," said her guest. "I don't want to be sleeping so long. I don't know how long it's been. I--"

"It is necessary," said Virid. "If you are not bitten, you may choke when I give you the unfertilized eggs. And I need you to remain still when you are unwrapped and wrapped again in silk, so that it lays properly, and does not chafe."

"Please," repeated her guest. "I. . . I don't have much time left, I guess. And I don't want to miss what I have left. Even if it's unpleasant."

It was crying again. Virid clasped her closer, stroked her hair with her pedipalps, made gentle noises. "You are certain you wish to attempt this without the venom?"

It gave a small motion, which Virid took for agreement.

"It will be difficult for your throat, and painful," she said. "And you will remain still when you are wrapped and unwrapped?"

Another little motion. "I would like to stand, and to stretch," she said. "It's difficult, being constrained like this?"

"And you wish to take hold of your sword of flame, and extricate yourself from this situation."

It sighed. "If I could, I'd want that," it said. "But I can see how many layers it's covered in. There's nothing here that can help me. You know that."

"Yes," said Virid. "But in a panic, you may not."

The venom was still in it. The venom was in its blood, and Virid's eggs were in its belly, freshly laid. It could not stay awake. But it was fighting sleep with all of its considerable strength.

"Very well," said Virid. "We shall attempt it. Once. If it does not go well, I shall use the venom on subsequent occasions."

All its tension was gone when she said that. It slept again, and Virid held it close again, felt its clean, open warmth against the strength of Virid's outer skeleton, Virid's pedipalps again stroking through its hair, keeping it clean and soothed, as it slept.

When Virid woke, it was still asleep. She had more of the first tiger; its blood was still fresh and flowing, and she was hungrier than she could remember being. Her guest was so incredibly strong, so incredibly beautiful. She sent the digestive juices back into the undertiger, so that it would all be liquid when she next fed. When she gave it the next crop of unfertilized eggs, it would be difficult even with the venom. As it was. . . but she had said that she would attempt it.

She looked up from her meal at her guest, swaying slightly in her webs. There was a pronounced curve to her belly now, and her breasts were heavier, and more full. The eggs were serving their function, keeping her fed and keeping her from thirst. And telling her body to prepare for what was to come. Virid had agreed to risk something very precious, and she was tempted to renege, seeing it there. Bite it while it slept, give it more venom. Allow it to take the eggs while it slept. It would not be so satisfying, but. . . .

Its eyes opened. A pale, clever green.

"Are you . . . is it time?"

"Yes," said Virid. "I am going to bite you."

It glared at her, then it slumped in its wrappings. It knew that it could not prevent what was coming, but it did not entirely understand.

"This is. . . I believe you call it a dry bite, yes? It is when I administer a bite, but where the venom does not flow. It is . . . this is a difficult attempt for both of us, I am afraid. But I must bite you."

Her guest gave a brave nod; it closed its eyes, and bit its lip. Virid could not help but me moved. And her ovipositor moved as well. Perhaps it would work.

Her guest's legs were wrapped together, but her feet extended beyond the silk, pale, with a few of her spot markings on the upper halves. They had that mammalian thickness to them, and they were warm and vibrant and incredibly expressive, struggling both to escape from Virid's touch, and to remain in place so that Virid would not change her mind and give her guest the venom which would soothe it. She bit at the soft place on the underside, between the weight-bearing pads of muscle and callus. It was hard, from carrying all of her guest's weight, corded with tendon and power. She tasted the blood there, and it was only blood, no venom.

Then she took up a laying position, her head beyond her guest's feet, middle feet at the entrance to its reproductive canal, which was not as infused with blood as it should have been, with the venom, her ovipositor moving toward her guest's face, but not yet at its fullest extension.

"Please," it said, strained by Virid's weight on its wrappings. "I'll open my mouth; you don't need to--"

"It is necessary," said Virid. "If you cannot achieve arousal without the venom, I shall have to administer it."

Her guest moved against Virid's tarsus. Hesitantly, and then with more vigor as Virid dipped into the vaginal canal, scooped out some moisture and spread it. And its mouth was open for Virid's ovipositor. It reached for her, and Virid could feel the softness of its tongue against the bottom of her ovipostior. She sighed, settled in closer.

The ovipositor quested forward, but her guest choked, pushed it back when it reached the back of her throat. And again, and a third time.

"I do not believe that you will be able to expel anything substantial from your stomach at this point," she said. "The eggs will not leave. But there may be some liquid that would escape, and I do not wish to risk this fluid reaching your respiratory system. So I will attempt to move past rapidly, once I force this passage. Unless you wish for me to withdraw, and administer the venom."

It hurt to pull her ovipositor back from where it had gone, so wet and so warm, but Virid did. "No," said her guest. "Please. Try."

"I will try," said Virid. "You must relax. Focus on the pleasant sensations; it will be simpler."

It was still thrusting against Virid's feet, the one inside the vestibule of her vaginal canal, the other stimulating the skin around it, with claw and fur and touch. It picked up the pace on Virid's advice, twisting eagerly.

If it had asked, Virid would have attempted to withdraw, and to administer the venom, but she wasn't sure if she would have been able to withdraw at that point, or if she would have had any control of the amount of venom administered. Her guest's movements weren't struggling against her, they were struggling against itself. It was trying so very hard, and--

Her guest gave a convulsive heave, as Virid's ovipositor slipped down her throat, pushed through the upper sphincter. Then another, smaller heave as it continued to slip downward. But it had not even expelled fluid from the stomach, let alone the eggs that Virid had given it. And it was still moving against her feet, still twisting in its wrappings.

Virid's whole body tensed, as she pushed forward. She had to hold tight to her webbing, to keep from thrusting so forcibly that it would tear her guest apart. The resistance to her thrusting was so much tighter, and the way it shifted and turned in its webbing. . . "Breathe," said Virid, urgently. "My ovipositor is shaped to allow this. It is difficult, but you must breathe."

There was another convulsion from its stomach when it tried; Virid could feel the flare of its nostrils, its urgency. "I know," she said, her legs stroking her guest. She contorted to bring her pedipalps down to her guest's feet, to stroke them as well, to give it whatever calm she could. "It is difficult, it is compressed. There you are. So small and so brave. Very good."

If it were not for the complications of its throat, this would be easier. But the airway was so close to the passage that Virid needed that it was compressed by her ovipositor. Still, she could now feel the passage of air over her ovipostor, as it quested into her guest, she could feel the swelling in her abdomen, as the unfertilized eggs moved into position.

She stroked her guest with her legs, on its breasts and belly, finding the places where she had bit it, feeling their closeness, its warmth.

"You must climax," she said, when she couldn't take it any longer. "I cannot release until you do."

Her guest's movement against her legs became more rapid, more frantic. This was a delay that was sharper than the delay when her guest had been fighting against it. It was trying so hard, it was fighting for the . . . if her guest did not climax soon, she would have to bite it, she would have to give it the venom it needed, just a drop, even if it didn't want it, she had said that she wouldn't, but she would have to, and. . . .

And then her guest reached that climax, clamping down on Virid's tarsus, muscles seizing and then relaxing, air forced from her lungs past the ovipositor, the whole of it so tight and slick and Virid was emptying herself again.

It was the third laying; she ought to have been nearly drained. But her guest was so fine, and so strong, she had produced . . . she emptied into its stomach, as strongly as if it had been the first laying, eggs pulsing out of her in wave after wave, filling her guest's belly completely, even though it had been expanded by the first two layings. Virid was dizzy when her ovipositor retracted, exhausted.

Her guest coughed, a long streamer of saliva dripping to the floor beneath it. Virid changed her position so that she could stroke her guest's back, its hair. "I am sorry," she said. "If you would like the venom now, I can still give it to you, and this will not be so clearly remembered."

"No," said her guest, hoarsely. "Thank you. No."

Virid settled in above her guest, her pedipalps again in its hair, kneading, stroking, calming. "Oh, that was very lovely though," she said. And then, softly. "So strong."

Her guest hung below her, limp, her stomach taut with Virid's eggs. "I must rest now," said Virid. "I will change your bindings when I awake, after I have eaten." She was already drifting off, into formless, pleasant dreams. "So very strong, so very lovely," she said, as she fell asleep, her guest wrapped against her abdomen by her silk and by her legs.

Whatever else befell, that was a moment that she would always treasure.

When Virid awoke, her guest was still held beneath her, quiet. Virid slowly unwound herself, and went to her larder. There was not much left of the first undertiger; she finished it, drinking what it had been, leaving the bones wrapped in the silk. It would disturb her guest to see them, perhaps, so she would take them out the next time her guest slept.

"I will change your wrappings, now," said Virid. "First I will lower you to the floor, and then I will remove them. You are unused to standing, so please do not attempt any sudden action. I do not wish to see you injure yourself."

"Thank you," said the guest. There had only been three layings, but it was already full fleshed, and heavy. Two more, and it would be ready for its true laying.

Virid laid her guest down on its back before she bit through its old wrappings. The stomach was not so taut, there was the curve to it that meant that it would be soft, and tender, and would not do well with too much pressure.

It lay there, as Virid ate the discarded wrappings, slowly flexing its arms and legs, before pulling itself up to sitting, and considering the changes that Virid's eggs had made to its body.

They were not so dramatic as all that. Its muscles were still full and firm, her limbs largely unchanged. There was a greater softness to it, perhaps, but that was the nature of its role. It was. . .

"I have to relieve myself," it said, softly. "Where should I go?"

"You do not," said Virid. "It may feel like perhaps you do, but there is . . . there was some waste in the first wrappings which held you, and it has been disposed of. The unfertilized eggs do not enter the excretory system until the true eggs are laid, and those functions have been superseded. If you wish to make the attempt you may, but. . . ."

But it was attempting. There was a squeeze of muscles, but as Virid said, nothing was produced.

It touched its stomach, winced. "It hurts," it said.

Virid reached out, stroked away the hairs that had fallen over its face. "I know," she said. "I am sorry for it. If you wish to stand and stretch, you should do it now. Then I will apply fresh wrappings."

"Are you. . . is it necessary? I could remain--"

"It is necessary," said Virid. "Yes. I do not wish you to harm yourself, and I do not wish to be distracted by fears of you harming yourself. It is difficult enough to know that you do not have the venom in you, keeping you safe. Please."

It stood, rising up slowly, and then further up, arms stretched above its head, rising up onto the lower pad of its feet. Then down to the side, and across. Virid watched carefully, observing the flexion of tendon and muscle, the way it checked its joints before flexing them, and then proceeding to the next. It was a magnificent creature, but she could watch only so long.

Perhaps it had only intended a pause, but when it ceased its movement, Virid grabbed it up by its midsection, pulled it into its webs. It gave a yelp; perhaps surprise, perhaps fear. When she was winding it, Virid bent its knees, and bound its legs to themselves, calves against thighs, and then did the same with the arms. She laid silk above its breasts and below them, frame them and compressing them, and then a band below its midsection.

"Does it have to be this tight?" it asked.

"No," said Virid. "But it pleases me to hold you tight at this point. It will not cause damage."

Her guest shifted in its bindings. Virid had left its head free, its hands and its feet. They were too expressive to hide. She could see the fingers open and close, then open again, hanging loose at the wrists. Its toes remained tense, as she adjusted, hanging in the webs.

"The muscles are going to cramp if you hold them like this for long," it said.

"Will they?" asked Virid. "How interesting. It is so seldom that I release my guests when they are not under the influence of the venom. I will like to observe this."

It sighed and shook its head, the waves of its hair shimmering in the lights that Virid had left out. "If you say so," it said.

"I do," said Virid. She laid her sternum against her guest's back, and began to stroke its hair. It shuddered, pulled back. Even without the venom, it would not be long before it relaxed into it. She could feel that in the silk which bound it.

"I fear that it will be very dull here, until I am ready for the next laying. You were very brave to take on a laying without the venom, but if this palls--"

"Thank you," said her guest. "But it will not. We could talk?"

A strange idea. "What would you like to talk about?"

"There's the . . . my name is Nea, by the way?"

"Is it?" asked Virid. She tasted the name, considered her guest. Perhaps? But then, people called themselves by various names, whether or not they were real. "Thank you for your trust. But I fear that I am not prepared to extend a similar courtesy. While many of my guests threaten to return and destroy me, few of them make the attempt. But you are . . . I know you, ah, Nea. You will not threaten in vain. And if you employ an arcanist, my name would give it some advantages in weaving spells against me. So I will not share with you my name. I hope you forgive me for that."

"You are extremely cautious, whatever your name is," it said. "But at this point, I don't think I'm likely to survive to find an arcanist to aid me in my revenge."

"It is true that the next layings will be as difficult as the previous, if you continue to decline the venom," said Virid. "And there is the true laying. But you are strong and adaptable, and your body is responding well to the messages in the unfertilized eggs. After this is done, I see no reason to think that you will not be able to seek an arcanist for whatever purposes please you most."

It tried to turn in its bonds; Virid held its head in place with her chelicera, as her pedipalps continued working through its hair.

"But I. . . when I said I didn't have time, I thought you understood--"

"Humans live so quickly," said Virid. "And they die so soon. How long do your people live? Two hundred years? Three hundred, at most? With so little time here, I understand that you do not want to waste it. But if you were under a misapprehension, I could give you some of the venom now, if you'd like? It is not too unpleasant, is it?"

There was a long pause, as it considered. It had thought. . . well, perhaps it was not wrong. There was always a danger in these things, and if it insisted on refusing the venom, those risks would be increased.

"It is not unpleasant," it said, finally. "To the contrary. But as you say. We have so little time here. And things are happening to me which are. . . I think it will be easier for me if I undergo them. Because otherwise they will be nightmares. The parts that I can remember will . . . no. Please do not give me the venom again, unless it is absolutely necessary."

Virid stroked its hair, trying to calm it again. It had become quite agitated, the way it was wrapped. Agitated to find that it was not going to die so soon as all that? "Perhaps we should talk of other things, yes? You are seeking the fountain of Caithren's Heart? It is here, but there are few who remember it, or know how to control the power it possesses."

"Not for me," it said. "I . . . but that seems so far away."

"It is quite a ways beneath us, yes," said Virid.

"That's not what I meant. It's just. . . I have responsibilities. There is a war, and—"

Virid sighed. "There is always a war, above. When I was there. . . when I did not wish to fight, they did their best to compel me. It is better here. Quieter."

It laughed, quietly. Well, perhaps, from her point of view. Virid's guest did seem to have a sense of irony.

"I take that you do not wish to hear me explain why you should aid us."

"No thank you," said Virid, primly. "I am content here."

"Do you miss it, though?" it asked. "Living here, all this time. Do you miss . . . above, you called it?"

Virid considered. "The sun was far too bright, as I recall," she said. "But I liked birds."

"I'm sure you did."

She nipped at the back of her guest's neck. Not hard, but enough to show displeasure. "Not that way. They are scarcely a mouthful, mostly feather and bone. But they would sing, and they could fly, and their feathers looked lovely. Running water, also. That was pleasant to see, and pleasant to hear. I liked it best under the moonlight."

Her guest was quiet at that. Perhaps she had bit too hard? But no, it wasn't in pain, and she hadn't broken the skin.

"My apologies," it said, finally. "It must be hard to miss those things."

"It is not so bad," said Virid. "There are many secret things here, and I enjoy learning them. And there are the husbands who visit sometimes, and I have other guests."

"Other guests."

"Yes. Not too often, but they come. It is not so bad. And I do not think it would be easy for me above, these days, whether or not there is a war. The undertigers and ratlings and so on; they know me for a threat, but they do not organize against me. I fear. . . well. I am cautious, let us say. And I know things. But tell me. That sword you carry; where did you find such a thing."

It told her; it was the work of a northern archmage, dead for eighty years. Then Virid told it some things about its armor that she had not known. It was the work of the raith-enchanters, the same as the halls Virid had taken for her own. There were marks within the vambraces which gave the name of the maker and with those, the wearer could command the armor to keep it warm in case of freezing cold, even in fast-running ice water, or in things colder than ice. And not just that. Virid told it of the raith-enchanters. How they had lived, how they had died, what they had loved and what they had feared.

Then it was nearly time for the fourth laying.

First, though, it was time to remove it from its wrappings, and to observe the muscular cramps that it had mentioned.

As it had promised, because it had been held in a single position for so long, its muscles had seized up, and they were unable to move easily when it was released. It was in pain—Virid could see it fighting against the pain. It wished to scream and wished not to scream; she could see the tears at the corners of its eyes, see the screams caught in its throat, and it was all so lovely that she had to clamp down to keep her ovipositor from reaching out too quickly.

But also, because of that pain, and that incapacity, she could lay it on the silk of her floor, and observe it properly, not worried that it might attempt something foolish. It was laid open before her, the visible swell in its belly, the softness of its breast. And oh, the power in its hips and thighs and shoulders, oh its strength and its softness, the pale skin, dappled with those faint orange-brown spots, the brightness of its hair.

"I shall have to wrap you again, before the laying begins," she said. "It will not be so tight this time. I will sleep holding you, and it may be some time before I awake."

Even in its pain, it managed a nod. "Is the cramping bearable?" she asked. "I do enjoy this, but if it is not, I will not indulge in this fashion in the future."

"It's unpleasant," she said, gasping out the words. "It's not good for joints or muscles. I need. . ."

"The next laying, I think, will give you what you need," said Virid. "Or the one after. When it is time to prepare you for the true laying, the eggs will drive your body to turn some of what I have given you to muscle, for your run."

"Run? I don't--"

"Shh," said Virid. It flinched away from her touch, then leaned toward it, a conscious act of will. "It will be clear in time. If you need it explained, I shall explain it. But now that your pain has eased, I will have to wrap you again. There will be some pressure on breast and belly this time. Loose before the laying, but they will tighten."

It swallowed, gave a brave nod. Then Virid wrapped it.

The silk held its arms together this time, but not to the body. They could droop freely beneath it, or if it wanted to move its shoulders, it could raise or lift them. Calves together and thighs together, but those too, she left free, so that it could raise or lower its legs, to prevent the cramping that had troubled it. She was going to have to rest soon after this laying, and she would have to rest a long time. She knew that already, from the weight in her abdomen, from the way it held its hands together, in front of it. Since it would not have the venom, it would have to move as freely as it could.

"Please?" it said, once Virid was done wrapping the long sheets of silk around its breasts and belly.

"Yes?"

"It is difficult for me to reach climax, with that. . . when my throat is being treated like that. Could I . . . I can't reach with my hands, to start, and--"

"I am going to bite you," said Virid. "It is going to be a dry bite. Then I will position myself. I shall keep the ovipositor from extruding for as long as I can, but I fear it cannot be for very long. I am sorry."

"I know," it said.

Virid reached up, stroked away the hair that had fallen across its forehead, tucked it behind its ear. Then she found the point where the smooth whiteness of her silk across its belly ended, and the smooth whiteness of its flesh began, warm, a trail of delicate, pale orange hair leading down to the thicker patch over its vaginal opening. She bit there, feeling the movement of her eggs in its belly, the heat of its blood. As she drank that blood, she knew how difficult it would be to grant its request, but she had said that she would dry, and she would try.

As soon as she positioned herself, it was moving against her tarsus, urgently. She felt its sensitive point with her claw, the heat of it, the throbbing of its need. Her ovipositor surged forward, into its mouth, but she held it there, enjoying the heat and warmth, not letting herself plunge down into its throat.

Its arms were bound in front of it, and it could raise them and lower them as it willed. It raised them, then, and its hands were stroking the length of Virid's ovipositor that was not its mouth. Gently, its small fingers moving carefully back and forward. Virid's breath hissed from the vents near the ovipositor, as she fought back the urge to plunge forward. It was so brave, and so clever. She couldn't. . . she couldn't. . . .

"Nea," she said, urgently. "I cannot hold back longer. Please, relax your throat. You know that you shall not choke. Relax, as best you can."

It moved, just a little—the ovipositor in its mouth meant that it could not nod more than that. But that little fragment of a nod was too much. Virid's ovipositor was surging forward, against the back of its throat, forcing the head straight, and then pushing down through the first sphincter, reaching through the wet warm length of her, down to the second sphincter, where the nearly digested eggs rubbed against its tip.

It convulsed when the ovipositor forced itself through those sphincters, hard, but it didn't stop its breathing this time, and while the pace became more hesitant, it didn't stop moving against Virid's legs, pushing itself down onto the one tarsus, rubbing itself against the other.

Instead of stroking her ovipositor, though, it was clutching it tightly, its hands squeezing down as tightly as a third sphincter, so tightly that Virid could feel her eggs there, against the pressure of its hands.

The next laying would be the true laying, of course. Obviously. There had never been a chance of two more, not with this intensity, not with a guest so strong and so beautiful. "Please," whispered Virid. "It is so pleasing. I need you to finish. I need to release. Nea. Please."

It slid forward when it heard that, hands moving further up the ovipositor, pulling itself forward so that the ovipositor was deeper within it. Virid had to grip her webs tighter, lest she utterly lose control. And then it finally came, and Virid's eggs poured out of her, filling its stomach, forcing themselves through into its bowels, so many of them Virid thought that she might fall unconscious right there, as drained as if she had been caught in someone else's webs, and coccooned herself.

It seemed to last forever, the laying and its orgasm, and when it was done, Virid could barely drag herself into position, holding her guest tight in her legs, before she slept.

It spoke, just as she was drifting off.

"I don't think I will return here for revenge," it said.

Virid had no answer to that, but she listened.

"I don't like what you are doing," it said. "It hurts, and I don't want it. It's . . . but it is . . . I mean, if an undertiger tried to eat me, and failed, I wouldn't want revenge on it."

This was more philosophy than Virid was prepared for, as tired as she was. And its voice was hoarse, after what had been done to its throat.

"You have not had the true laying yet," she said. "Or the fear. It may be my nature to treat my guests in this fashion. It is in my guests' nature to wish for vengeance, and in some cases to attempt it. Let us rest now, and not think of these things."

If it replied, Virid did not hear; she was asleep, her legs wrapped around her guest.

It awoke before she did, of course. Virid's sleep wasn't complete. It wasn't sleep, exactly. It was the lassitude that came when the fertilized eggs were shifting into the canal, it was the rest before a hunt. She had the entire second tiger saved, and she would consume it all, drink it all down, before it was time.

So she could feel her guest moving within her webs, flexing its arms and shoulders, its legs and hips and ankles. Carefully at first, and then with greater urgency, tensing its muscles and then relaxing them, tensing and relaxing.

"You are afraid," said Virid, sleepily. She needed more rest, but she also needed to reassure her guest.

"Yes," it said. "I don't. It's not—"

"It was the laying," said Virid. "I am sorry. I thought there might be another. The unfertilized eggs have moved lower, and now they are telling you to fear."

It was silent, long enough that Virid drifted back into a half-sleep. "Oh," it said, jerking Virid back awake. "But why is that--"

"When the time comes, I will release you, and you shall flee. Then I will hunt you and catch you, and there will be the true laying."

It was exhausting, explaining these things. They didn't talk so much, when she gave them the venom. "It would be easier with the venom. Which you do not wish. So you will fear."

It shivered, held beneath her, still secure in its wrappings. "Thank you," it said, though.

It was thanking her?

"For not forcing the venom." It shivered again, and its muscles kept moving, spurred by the eggs in the lower portion of its digestive tract. "I've been afraid before."

Such vigorous lives, those mammals led. Virid was still sleepy, but her pedipalps were again in among her guest's hair, stroking, soothing. "I have sealed away your armor and tools," she said. "You musn't hurt yourself scrabbling at them. The straps on the armor were not well; I have replaced them with my own weaving. When we are done . . ."

She could not talk more. It was already too much. She fell asleep again, the rhythms of her guest's fear lulling her back to sleep.

When she awoke, it was time. She cut through the bindings holding her guest, and it fell to the floor below, its muscles fine and sleek; it had been awake when the lower eggs had worked, so while it was still more heavily fleshed, thanks to the nutriment of the eggs it had been given, it was also stronger. It would run far and fast.

But even though her guest was strong and sleek and trembling in fear, it didn't run. Instead, it turned and faced Virid.

"What do you want me to do?" it asked.

"I want to hunt," said Virid. "I want you to run, and I want you to hide, and I want you to fight. And then I want to take you, and I want to have a true laying in you."

Still, it stood its ground, looking up at her.

Virid hissed out the air from her lungs, and came down on the floor not far from her. "Run!" she said, and reared up, showing her fangs.

At that, it did turn and it did run, fast as she had hoped, faster, panic and courage rising up with every smooth pulse of its hip and thigh. Ah, but it was beautiful.

Virid ate the wrappings that she had cut through, and then she drained the second undertiger, the whole of it in a single session, too hungry to think clearly, too filled with the laying urge to drink clearly. She had inspected her halls and she had sealed them. Now her guest was in them, running, looking for weapons, looking for a place to hide, and now it was time to hunt.

Virid cast what was left of the undertiger aside. She would eat the silk of its cocoon later. She couldn't wait.

Her guest was not an arcanist. It had been naked when it had left Virid's chamber, and its arms and armor were sealed in a cocoon of silk, behind a sealed door. She had made passages in her lair for it, she had left doors sealed and unsealed. Now, she hunted.

Beside the door to the chamber where they had slept together and Virid had laid in it, there had been a lantern beside the door. It had wrenched that lantern loose; she hadn't known that it could do that. She would be cautious. Always, despite the ardor in her blood, besides the weight of those fertilized eggs.

There were tracer lines on the floors and the walls, a sixth-fourth the width of one of her guest's flame-red hairs. They told her where it had been, how it was moving. And it was clever, despite the fear, despite the weight of her eggs in it. Mapping out Virid's halls, learning where it could go and where it could not. Twice it had worried at old kills, looking for something amidst the remains, and once it had tried to force its way into one of her middens.

Virid followed, careful. Closer, but not too close. Closer, watching for that stolen light, waiting for the correct time to make her strike.

Oh, it was clever, and oh it was strong. It had posed the lantern behind a column, and it had stood nearby, trying to lure Virid toward that lantern, tossing bits of rock at the tracer lines. But rock would trip tracer lines in one way, and living things another; they would not touch and lay still, or touch and remain. There was the tension of the half-step, the pat-pat of touching with a foot and then putting down weight.

Virid found it, in its ambush. But even then, it was not done. It whirled on Virid on her approach, the sharpened length of an undertiger's tibia in one hand, its other hand wrapped in ratling hide.

Virid had fought it once before, but then she had range and surprise. This time, she struck at it with a foreleg, parrying the thrust of the tibia. It struck her face with its hide-wrapped arm, hard, and then drove its tibia up and into Virid, as Virid threw her weight into it, knocking it down.

The tiger bone lodged itself in the joint between her left front leg and her carapace. There was a constellation of pain, bright and clean, and right where she needed it. Her guest tried to stand, and her left front leg lashed out, catching it between its breasts, pinning it to the ground, just hard enough to break the skin, and no harder than that.

It struggled, tried to get out from under, as Virid adjusted, aimed her spinnerets.

"I didn't—you said I should—"

"Hush," said Virid. Her silk caught her guest around its throat. She lifted her by the throat, and spun her around, binding her in the mating position. Legs apart, thighs bound to the sides of its swollen belly, legs hanging down, arms to its sides, layers of silk over it, with only the head and hands and feet and the hindquarters left free. Hands and feet and head expressive, hindquarters perfectly shaped, quivering with fear. "It was perfectly done. Had you killed me, I would have died satisfied."

It had the fear on her, so strong she smelled of it. But she relaxed a little at that, oddly.

"This will be painful, I think," said Virid. "I am going to bite you now."

It tensed.

"This is your last chance for the venom," said Virid. "Do you wish it?"

It shook, a full body shake. It was afraid and it knew it would be in pain, and yet it remained true to the principles it had chosen. Virid's pedipalps reached out, and stroked its hair. "It will perhaps be easier if you are more fully aroused," she said. "If you aren't, there may be tearing."

Another convulsion. And shaking, when Virid pulled it up into the webbing that hung from all the ceilings of her halls, and positioned her for laying.

With the venom, it would have been frightened, but it would also have been sunk into something more responsive, less troubled by thought. Aroused. And yet, despite its fear, despite the lack of venom, when Virid introduced her tarsus to the opening to its vaginal canal, it ground down against it, desperate. . . eager?

"I will miss you, when this is done,' said Virid. She kept the one foot inside the vestibule, pushing at the sides, opening it, as the other manipulated the sensitive point, and the folds of skin beyond the entrance to the canal, working moisture from inside to the area around. "But I cannot delay any longer."

When the fertilized eggs had shifted into position, her ovipositor had changed; it was shorter and thicker, more sensitive. But it was just as urgent, pushing forward, as Virid settled into position, her tarsus pulling out from the vestibule, as the head of the ovipositor moved against the opening.

"Your body believes that you are bearing young of your type," said Virid. "Thus these changes. This will feel very large, and very uncomfortable, but I do not believe that it will tear you."

Her guest—her Nea—squirmed at that. And then, deliberately, pushed backward against the ovipositor. The ovipositor was too wide for it, and it was afraid. But it had also been working itself against Virid's feet. . . Virid had no guess as to what Nea might have been thinking. But it saw a difficulty, and drove itself against it. The same as it always had.

This difficulty, though. Virid could not restrain herself. Not with Nea moving underneath her. Her ovipositor pushed back, and then it pushed in.

Nea screamed, loud, high pitched; there was pain in there, mostly pain, but also perhaps something else?

It did not matter. Virid was moving, her ovipositor reaching into Nea, finding the cervical sphincter, and slipping within, spreading it open. Nea screamed again, twisting, trying to escape now, but it was held far too tightly for that.

Virid found her position, held it. Then her legs started working at the skin, at the sensitive point at the apex of her vaginal canal. "You must climax," she said.

Nea sobbed.

"I know," said Virid. "But this is necessary." She did not offer the venom; there was no point in offering that which was not wanted. But if Nea did not. . . .

Of course, Nea did. It moved reluctantly, pained and slow. But it moved against the fur and claw of Virid's feet, it responded to her touches, to the stroking of its hair and of its hands, to the pulsating weight of Virid's ovipositor. It was difficult, guiding it to where it needed to go, but it made the attempt. And then, there were the contractions, squeezing against Virid's ovipositor, the sudden screaming intensity of it.

She did not give it the venom. But there were the eggs inside of it, the ones still in the stomach and the upper tract, and they had taught Nea's body what its purpose was. Its orgasm rippled through it, spread out, and then came the true laying.

These were the fertilized eggs that had been kept within Virid for years, waiting for a guest such as this one. Dozens of them, each fertilized by a different husband who had dared visit her in her lair. Each ready, each perfect, each swollen with a need and a desire. Mating with the husbands was quick and urgent. A true laying was slow and even more urgent, each egg pushed into the guest, filling her, filling her canal, taking root in the ground the unfertilized eggs had prepared. And Nea's orgasm continued, shaking them from Virid, pulling them from Virid, all of them, until she was utterly spent, and Nea was as limp as though she had been half digested.

Virid unwound the silk from it, and considered it, as it lay there, naked and stretched, its stomach once again taut with Virid's eggs. Its muscles were still twitching, though. Soon the fear would be upon it, and it would run. There was much that she had to do before . . . and there was no venom in it, so the lassitude would not endure.

An exit was opened and cleared. The armor and weapons retrieved, and placed upon it, with those catches and latches that the raith enchanters had not designed for legs like Virid's. And then she had to go, to seal up her passages and retreat behind them, lest her guest attack instead of flee.

And yet, she lingered. Just a moment, just a moment too long, because Nea did not have the venom in it. It was awake, and watching her, and it was armed, and it knew how she would fight.

It looked at her sword, called the fire to the blade. Then it extinguished it, and put the blade beside her.

"What now?" it said.

"Now you run," said Virid, again. It was not something that she had ever had to explain. "You have the fear in you, so that you will run far away from here, far and fast. Thus my sons will not look to their mother for mating, and thus my daughters will find territories that do not infringe upon mine."

It put her hand to its stomach, felt the enchanted steel of its armor. "It fits," it said.

Virid drew back into her webs. "I am indifferently good at many things," she said. "But I am reasonably competent at weaving. The cords of your armor will adjust properly, thank you."

It smiled. Despite the fear in it, despite the pain, it smiled. "You're welcome," it said. "But these children--"

"It is not the venom," said Virid. "But there will still be the effects of the eggs upon you, when they are ready to leave your protection. It shall hurt when they leave your protection, but not badly."

"Yes, but will I have to . . . they can . . . I mean, children--"

"They will die, mostly," said Virid. "There are many things in the world which kill. The strongest of the children will not die. There are still grasses, above, and there are still small creatures which they will hunt."

"Oh," said Nea. "Let me take that bone from your shoulder."

Virid had forgotten it. It would be difficult for her to extract it, yes. Perhaps she would not be able to, and it would hold there, an irritant and a reminder. And yet, to approach a human in armor, a human who had been strong enough to harm her even when it was naked?

She could do no other. She crept toward Nea, and Nea pulled the bone from its shoulder.

"My blood has some virtues," said Virid, as Nea considered the bone. "Perhaps consult with an arcanist. . ." but she could not stay there, not with the sword so near to Nea's hand. She retreated into her webs.

Nea stood straighter. "I will return here," it said.

It was coming. When they were strong enough to turn and face her, despite the fear, they would say this.

"And I will take my draught from the fountain of Caithren's Heart. I ask that you not oppose me in this, and I ask that you not delay me in this."

Ask? Not oppose?

"I act according to my nature," said Virid. "I will attempt not to . . . it will not be easy."

"I know," said Nea.

"Why are you not swearing revenge?" burst out of Virid. "This is not how these partings are done."

"I expected to die, and I thought that I had failed. I didn't die, and I haven't failed. What you have taken. . . It was unpleasant, mostly. But not completely unpleasant. And when I asked, you didn't give me the venom. You could have. . ." It gave a little shake. "But don't interfere with me, when I return."

It was taller in her armor, somehow. And frightening. Now that it knew that Virid was there, now that it knew what Virid was, it would be deadly dangerous to oppose it, more than any arcanist. And yet.

"If you return to my halls," she said. "I am going to interfere with you. Even if I don't have a single fertilized egg for you to shelter, I am going to take you, and I am going to lay unfertilized eggs in your belly, and then I will hunt you and I will give you a true laying of unfertilized eggs, which will be difficult and unpleasant. You are too much for me to resist."

It had the fear on it. It had; Virid could smell it. And yet, it gave her an ironic salute with its sword. "Then perhaps we shall see if you can hunt something aware and armed. Whoever you are."

"Virid," she said. "That is my name."

"Virid," said Nea. "I will see you soon. But now I apparently have to run."

Virid watched it climb up into the light above. She waited there a long time, considering what had just left. And then she went back to her halls, to prepare.


End file.
